And I Thought Teaching Them to Tie Was Tricky

In the world but not of the world. It’s the classic line for how Christians are to reconcile living out their faith with living in a fallen world. It was the theme of our teaching at church this weekend with Daniel, a young Jewish man taken political prisoner in Babylon, as our example. The teacher pointed out Daniel’s purity—his faithfulness to the things of God—as well as his proximity. Daniel didn’t try to escape the Babylonian culture. He didn’t complain about it or rage against it. He lived right in the midst of it, took a stand when he needed to, and became a great leader with a faithful testimony.

As I raise my own young “Daniels,” I see lots of success in the purity part—probably because that’s where 99 percent of my effort goes. My children know the Bible better than any other book. They roam through the house singing praise songs and turn up their noses at Katy Perry. They dress conservatively and have no interest in the latest fads. They stay true to themselves and are not the least bit swayed by the winds of their culture. These are good things. Things I love. But what about proximity?

Am I teaching them to live in the world, or just to resist it? Am I instilling vision in them to lead well in the world, or just to fight against all that’s bad with it? Part of leading well is fighting and calling out what’s wrong. It is daring to take a stand, even when it’s an unpopular stand. But we can plant ourselves so firmly in what we believe is right that we will not move toward others who are different. This seems to be the bigger issue with my kids. They know well how to be “not of the world.” It’s the being in it part—being in it well—that needs some work.

We laid some groundwork by living at the shop and experiencing the culture of the poor and the hurting and the addicted. Our commitment to being involved with the poor will keep the kids around that part of “the world,” but what about the suburbanites who wear bikinis and listen to rap and party on the weekends? Will my children love them, too, or just avoid them like the plague? Worse yet, will they feel compelled to judge them? In the midst of all the other instruction, have I remembered to teach my kids that self-righteousness is one of the ugliest sins going? And am I doing more than teaching? Am I modeling for them how to love people who dress, pierce, worship, parent, and vote differently than I do? 

As an adult Christian, I feel the constant tension between knowing when to stand up and fight and when to shut up and love, when to resist the culture and when to engage with it. I have no regrets about focusing first with my kids on how to be different, set apart, from the ways of the world and how to cling always to the things of God. But before they leave this nest, I want to be sure they also have the skills to discern which battles are worth fighting and that they know those battles can often be won with humility, kindness, and gentleness. 

Help me, Lord, to teach my kids something that I'm so far from mastering myself. 

Passion Week

“I don’t understand.” “This is not how I thought it would be.”

Those words have probably never been spoken more than during the first Passion Week. Have you ever had your dreams soar to their greatest height, only to come crashing down, dead and buried, five days later?

As Jesus rode into Jerusalem on what we now call Palm Sunday, the Jews surely thought the end was near. This man could well be their long-awaited Messiah. Although he had come to earth the same way the rest of us do and had spent the bulk of his life as a carpenter, a lot of them were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could draw a crowd, for sure. He could also heal them, feed them, and raise the dead to life. No one else had ever done those things. He also talked in an entirely different way. He spoke of the kingdom of God like it was something urgent, something near. And wouldn’t it be just like God to unleash His glory and topple the Roman government at the time of Passover, when all His people were gathered together for their biggest celebration of the year?

Think of the excitement in the air. Their day was coming! They had suffered and waited expectantly for centuries, and it looked like this this Jesus could be the answer to all of their problems, the fulfillment of all their longings. They couldn’t help but throw their cloaks down before him, to wave palm branches at him, to give him a victor’s parade. “Hosanna!” they cried at the top of their lungs. “Save us. NOW!” It was as much a command as a plea. They were tired of living under the paradox of being God’s chosen people yet enduring harassment and oppression for generations. Tired of being merely tolerated and not respected. They were tired of being afraid. Sick and tired of losing. And this man, one of them, could be the game changer. I bet you could feel the air crackling with anticipation that week.

Except the week ended with his arrest. Unexpected, but surely this was part of the plan? He would pull out one of his miracles, overcome his captors, and break free. What sweet satisfaction to see the Roman guards humiliated by the likes of one of them. Except he didn’t escape. He actually started to look weaker by the minute. Why didn’t he resist them? Why was this man, full of words that could raise the dead, suddenly so quiet? Why would he stand there and take that beating, almost willingly? Had he given up? And if the one we thought would save us gives up, where does that leave the rest of us?

Hopeless. The despair of hopelessness must have moved in so quickly. What was worse—watching Jesus trudge up that hill, unable to even carry his own cross, or watching the faces of thousands of people realizing their dreams were dead? “I don’t understand.” “This is not how I thought it would be.”

Some of them gave up right there. They couldn’t bear to stick around and watch the end. Others held onto hope until the last breath, but when Jesus himself said, “It is finished,” what more was there to believe in? This Passover, full of such promise, would be like all the others—a remembrance of an ancient time when God cared enough about His people to rescue them. Except surely this one would be sadder.  

Don’t you wish we could tell them? “Hang in there! Hold onto hope! Sunday is coming! Your dreams aren’t dead—they’re just delayed! And what you’re about to see will be so much more than what you could have dreamed yourself. Jesus didn’t come to overthrow a government. No, not such a small thing as that! He came to overthrow death itself.”

This is why we hope. When children die, when jobs are lost, when bills are due and money is scarce, when terrorists threaten, when things don’t turn out the way we thought they would—we still have hope. God doesn’t do what we think He’ll do. Our dreams go unfulfilled or even sometimes die. But His dreams for us are so much bigger. They’re resurrection big.

Hang in there. Hold onto hope. Sunday is coming.

The Best Days

Today I stood in the kitchen and laughed harder than I remember laughing in a long time. My 14-year-old son is a bit pampered by his sisters, but today, no one felt like making him a smoothie, including me. He tried to convince us that he could make it himself, but he couldn’t get past the most basic step. His 12-year-old sister, with her familiar rye humor, sweetly mocked, “Smoothie Boy doesn’t even know where to find the blender.” A few minutes later he was attempting to lock the blender into place when he accidentally unscrewed the bottom and smoothie guts gushed out all over the kitchen cabinets and floor. We laughed until I’m sure we were the same color as the berries.

Though there is ample evidence to the contrary, I’m pretty sure I’m living the best years of my life. These are the days I longed for when I was up to my eyeballs in baby poop, Desitin, midnight feedings, and that blasted infant carrier. They’re what kept me going through the God-forsaken potty-training days (probably God had not really forsaken me, but with a couple of my kids, it felt like it), the toddlers who threw up in their beds and their hair, the tantrums thrown at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and the ceaseless, “are-you-doing-this-just-to-wear-me-down?” whining. I just wanted them to get older. But not too old.

Maybe you’re like me. If you have kids who can tie their own shoes but are not yet asking for the car keys, maybe these are the best days of your life, too. And maybe you wonder, like I sometimes do, what’s keeping us from enjoying them. For me, I think it’s that I spend too little time in the present or too much time in the present. I’ll try to explain. 

A lot of parents seem to be either fixated on the past or anxious about the future. I’m usually pretty forward focused, but as my youngest has approached her seventh birthday, I’ve agonized over all the things I can’t remember about her young life. Why can’t I remember what we did for her third birthday? Or which songs we used to sing before bed? Why did I not do a better job of teaching her and her siblings to rinse the toothpaste out of the sink after they brushed or make their beds? Then I flash forward: Who will marry them if they never rinse the toothpaste out of the sink or make their beds? How will we even afford three girl weddings—or four college educations? I’m not even sure how we afford all this milk we’re drinking.

I get stuck in the past, pining for days that I couldn’t wait to escape when I was actually living them, or I get overwhelmed by the future and a thousand problems I can’t possible solve today. It’s that kind of stupid stuff that keeps me from enjoying the best days of my life.

Then there’s the opposite extreme, being too focused on the present. Instead of seeing the big picture—the beautiful, blessed big picture—I get hung up on the thing right in front of me: the dead mouse in the basement, the coaster that is permanently affixed to the dining room table, the bathtub faucet that doesn’t work, the stain that won’t come out, the library books that are missing. There’s not a lot of joy in looking for missing library books. And when kids are hollering at each other in the background and you’re five minutes late for school and you have no idea how you’re going to meet that work deadline, it’s hard to believe these are the best days of your life.  

But I still think they are. It’s just a matter of where I focus my attention. Will it be on the berry juice spilling onto the floor I just cleaned? Or my panic that the young man I’ve only got four years left to train doesn’t know how to use a blender, let alone an iron? Or the ache in my heart that reminds me I’ve only got four years left with him? Or will I just seize the moment, savor it, and laugh?